


A Different Kind of Sleep

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Misuse (kind of), Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Guilt, John is sneaky, M/M, Sherlock is Sneaky in Return, Sleep, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never been good with sleeping, but John is the one suffering -- the pacing, violin playing, gunshots -- something has to be done. When he finally finds a trick that works, the side effects could very well be the end of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Wants Sherlock to Change

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

This was one of the problems with flatmates, Sherlock thought, sitting on his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. Everyone always says that living together is a compromise, but soon enough, it's only _you_ who are expected to do the compromising. They see their lives as normal -- fair enough, otherwise why would they live that way? -- but if your life doesn't fit around theirs, well, surprise, you're the one who needs to change.

Sherlock had always had a complicated relationship with sleep, ever since he was a child. When he was thinking, it seemed he could go days without it and then when his work was done, he could go days lost within it. That was how he lived, that was his normal, but now John was suggesting he change. And worse yet, he was throwing around medical mumbo-jumbo to try to back up his point. Or at least that's what Sherlock assumed he was doing. Sherlock realised then that he hadn't been listening to a single word John had said since this topic had first been introduced and John had begun pacing around the sitting room. He snapped his brain back into the conversation.

"John," he interrupted, "you are my flatmate, not my doctor. I've not come to you for medical advice because I don't have a medical problem. Yes, I stay awake sometimes for four or five days but that's always followed by a nice, long sleep to balance everything out. It's not an illness, Dr Watson, it's a lifestyle choice. Your sleep patterns may be different, may be what most consider 'more traditional,'" Sherlock flicked his fingers like air quotes, to acknowledge that many of John's lifestyle choices could be seen as 'more traditional' than his own (and possibly imply that the phrase also meant 'more boring'). "But I have to say, I really thought you'd last longer than a few months before trying to change me." He lowered his head as if he were hurt. Sherlock was totally aware of John's triggers -- any hint of disappointment in Sherlock's voice often led to John backing off whatever change he was trying to introduce into the flat. Sure, it was a bit sneaky of Sherlock to take advantage of that knowledge, but what was the point of being able to read people if he couldn't use that information to his benefit? He stood up. "I trust this conversation is now over?" he asked.

"No, Sherlock, it's not over," John said, standing up as well. He felt bad pushing the subject, but he was worried about Sherlock. "Look, this isn't about what's 'traditional', it's about what's healthy. I promise that lovely brain of yours will function a hundred times better if you properly rest it every night."

John had to admit that a small part -- a very small part -- was trying this out of selfish need. It was very hard to sleep when Sherlock was pacing all night, playing the violin, shooting a gun once -- it was madness. He knew if he could get Sherlock on some kind of schedule then he could get on one as well.

"Fine, Doctor, how about this? How about every night you come into my room and give me this lecture because I can guarantee you it will put me to sleep within minutes," Sherlock said sarcastically. He stretched his arms and yawned. "Yes, you are in fact boring me to sleep, John. Well done." He crossed and uncrossed his legs and then crossed them once again for good measure since he was entering full pout mode at this point.

John glared at him for a moment before calming his nerves -- the man was like an overgrown child! He took a deep breath. "Okay. That works for me, Sherlock, because what I care about is you getting some proper sleep and rest and if that is what I have to do, then I will. I'm a doctor after all, and the needs of my patients come first." He crossed he arms and raised his brows lightly at Sherlock.

"I'm not your bloody patient!" Sherlock griped. He stood up and walked to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. "Is that what you usually prescribe then, for sleep problems -- listening to someone be boring an hour before bed? Your patients must think you're a miracle worker." He got the milk out of the fridge.

"No," John said, trying not to let the comments affect him. "There's different things -- natural ways to do it or with medicine, like sleeping pills..."

"Natural -- like counting sheep? Come on," Sherlock said dismissively. "Plus, I've taken sleeping pills, John. They make no difference. When I was younger, my parents had me try just about everything. So unless there's a new, magic one, I don't think that advice is very useful. Don't you have any real patients whose symptoms you need to cure? Shouldn't you be spending your clearly valuable time working on their cases?"

"No, not counting sheep," John said a bit angrily. "The point is to turn off your mind, let it rest. Natural ways are like . . . massages before bed, relaxing techniques to quiet your mind. And as far as meds, as a matter of fact there is a new one, if you would like to try it. Look . . . I'm not going to force you. You're a grown man and I am just your flatmate, but a regular sleeping schedule will be good for you. And on that note, I am going to bed. Good night, Sherlock."

As John stood up, Sherlock called, "So you're not going to give me a massage then? Some doctor you are . . . I thought you cared . . ." He didn't even want a massage -- in all honesty, he normally preferred not to be touched. But he was pretty sure that the request would make John feel uncomfortable and, despite being fully aware of the immaturity behind the act, Sherlock was happy to mess with John's comfort levels if John was going to harass him like this.

John paused on the stairs, looking over at Sherlock. Was this a game of wills? If he was going to be living with Sherlock, he was going to have to prove that he was not weak -- that he could keep up with Sherlock unaffected. After the drugs bust a couple weeks ago, John had assumed Sherlock would go right for the pills. Then again he was probably being sarcastic now, but that didn't matter. John would play along. "Excellent. Even as a doctor of medicine, I agree that a natural method is best. Shall we go to your room, then?"

This greatly surprised Sherlock, but he was also strangely proud of John's nerve. "Yes, fine, good," he picked up his tea and headed to his room. Once there, he sat cross-legged on the bed and turned to John. "So what do I have to do? Do you need me to strip?"

"No! Just . . . take off the dressing gown and lay down. I can do it over your t-shirt," John said. "And I'll have to touch your head, will that be okay?"

"Touch whatever you want -- I wouldn't want to deny myself a cure based on squeamishness about your magic hands," Sherlock said, slipping off his dressing gown and lying flat on his back on the bed. "Go for it then."

"Turn onto your stomach," John said, pushing his shoulder so he got onto his stomach. John crawled onto the bed and knelt beside him. "Just close your eyes and relax," he said quietly, his fingers pressing against Sherlock temples. He rubbed lightly, bringing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, lightly massaging his scalp. He moved down, ran his fingers over Sherlock's neck, then started kneading the middle of his back, slowly working his way outwards towards his shoulders. And then a bit lower, moving back inwards again.

"John," Sherlock said softly, "I'll be honest with you, that feels quite . . . pleasant. But it's not making me sleepy and it's not making me 'turn off my mind' -- I'm still thinking."

"So stop thinking. Focus on this . . . on my hands and how that feels," John continued kneading, slowing down and moving them over every inch.

Despite his commitment to disproving John, Sherlock gave it a go. He thought about John's hands on his back, they felt nice. John had nice hands, he'd noticed them before, but he couldn't remember when. When was that? He was pretty sure it was at the bank; when Sebastian was talking, Sherlock noticed John's hands, crossed first and then fiddling with a thread on his trousers. God, Sebastian was an idiot. Why is it always the idiots who get the greatest financial rewards? Oh my god, Sherlock thought, I literally cannot stop thinking.

"John," Sherlock said, "I'm pretty sure I don't want you to stop but the last five minutes _have_ proven that I cannot stop thinking. I don't think the natural route is going to solve your problem."

"My problem? I don't have a problem," John said, pulling his hands away. He felt bad for failing, but he tried to remind himself this wasn't an ordinary case. "Well, it was worth a try," he said, getting off of the bed.

Sherlock rolled over and looked at John. "The sleep thing is bothering you much more than it's bothering me so it really is your problem, John. But, look, I'm willing to help you with your problem. I tried the massage and it didn't work. If you want me to try your magical pill, I will. If we give it two weeks and there's no change, can we agree that it's an utter failure and you'll take full responsibility for your problem with my sleep? Is that a deal?"

John considered him for a moment before nodding. "Deal," he said. "You're not taking anything else, are you?" He asked, worried about his having a bad reaction and it being his fault.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, Dad, I'm being a good boy just like you said to be." He picked up his mug and took a sip of tea.

John rolled his eyes. "I'll get them from my bag," he said, leaving the room. A few minutes later, he came back with one and a glass of water. "Here."

"Okay, fine, if you're sure," Sherlock said. "Any side effects I should worry about -- besides the wasted thinking time and a smug flatmate?"

John smiled. "Nothing too serious," he said.

"Good, fine," Sherlock said. "Should I get into bed now then? Is it going to hit me immediately? Don't let me sleep all day tomorrow. Especially if you're going to be doing something interesting. Don't leave me out just to be smug."

"I'm not going to leave you out to be smug," John said, trying not to laugh. "It's going to work pretty quickly, and it should last 6-8 hours," he explained.

"All right," Sherlock said, "if you say so. But I'd better not wake to my sock drawer a mess or rude pictures drawn on my face." He got under the covers of his bed. "If I get weirded out or have heart palpitations or something, should I call you or just ring 999 immediately?"

"Just call me, Sherlock. You'll be fine," John insisted. "If you're that uncomfortable just don't take it," he said.

"It's too late, I've just swallowed it. If I drop dead, it'll be your fault and I presume you'll let Lestrade know that detail," Sherlock slid down into the bed. "I'm teasing, John, I'll be fine. I'm not convinced it will have any effect at all." He smiled. "See you in the morning."

Sherlock lay quietly in the bed, convinced the pills were not going to have an effect. But even with that certainty, he fell asleep.

John went up to his own room and for a while he just reveled in the quiet. He finally fell asleep, loving the peace.


	2. Sherlock Changes

The next morning Sherlock woke up and couldn't help but admit he felt quite refreshed. Whether he would tell that to John, he hadn't decided yet. He lay in bed and stretched and then stood up, putting on his dressing gown and going down to make tea.

John woke up and immediately thought about Sherlock, wondering how he had survived the night. John hoped he'd slept well and that everything was okay. He put his pajamas on and headed downstairs, finding him in the kitchen. "Good morning," he said.

"Yes, fine, it is," Sherlock said. "I obviously slept through the entire night, so feel free to gloat. Tea?"

"I'm not going to gloat. It worked for me, too, so it's good all around. I'm glad you didn't have palpitations," John grinned.

"Everyone's happy then," Sherlock said, handing John a cup of tea. He sat down at the table to look at the newspaper.  
  
John drank his tea while he made himself a small breakfast. He ate standing at the counter, thanked Sherlock for the tea and got ready for work. "Shall I pick up food on the way home?"

"Hmmm . . . now that you've tricked me into sleeping, you're moving on to controlling my eating habits as well?" Sherlock smiled at him. "Sure, that's good. Whatever you want to eat sounds good. See you."

Once John had gone, Sherlock moved to his desk and answered some emails. Then he moved to the sofa to read, but was asleep within a half hour. When he woke up, he texted John.

_I've just slept again. Should I be worried? I do like naps but not when I've had a full night's sleep. I'm worried. Should I be worried? SH_

John thought about the medicine for a moment before answering.

_No, it's probably just still in your system. How do you feel otherwise? -JW_

_Bored. SH_

_Well, that's normal for you. -JW_

Sherlock pushed aside his phone and sat up on the sofa to read. When it got close to the time John was to get back home, he put the kettle on and set the table for dinner.

John stopped at the regular Chinese place they ordered from, picked up their food and headed up. He was tired and already eager to get to bed.

"What's wrong with your face?" Sherlock asked as John came in the door. "You look shattered. Did you have a bad day at work or something?"

"Yeah, it was busy," he said, setting the food down. "Can we eat on the sofa? I'd like to rest," he added.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Listen, do I need to keep taking that medication? It worked so well, I think I might be cured. Or are you going to say in an incredibly patronising voice, 'Sherlock, it doesn't work like that'?" He looked at John and said, "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? Well, if so, should I take it earlier or something so I don't sleep so much tomorrow during the day? I would actually like to get some work done, you know."

John closed his eyes and pinched his nose. "Sherlock, you're going to make us both need meds. You can take it whatever time you'd like. I just want to help you, okay?" He wished Sherlock would stop giving him a hard time about the medicine.

"Goodness me, you're a . . . grump tonight," Sherlock said, pushing his food around his plate. "Look, I know you're trying to help, I'm sorry. I just seem to have more energy this evening . . . but I'll leave you be after dinner."

John sighed softly. "It's fine, I'm sorry," he said. "I know you're taking the pills as a favour to me and I appreciate that. The energy is because you slept a proper amount. You'll be able to get more things done during the day," he explained.

"I suppose I'm just not used to the energy," Sherlock said, standing up to go wash his dishes. "Maybe I'll get a case tomorrow and then I can use the energy on something useful. The truth is, John, I kind of enjoyed the sleep -- I think I had interesting dreams, though I've forgotten them now -- and my body does feel quite different. So thanks," he said, smiling. He looked over at the clock and said, "Okay, I think I'll take the pill and have a nice long bath. That's supposed to be good for sleep, isn't it? Then I'll be off to the Land of Nod. If I don't come out of the bath in an hour, you'd be check on me to make sure I've not fallen asleep and drowned."

"I'd feel more comfortable if you took it after your bath," John admitted. "It works rather quickly, and I really don't want you dead." He turned to look at Sherlock. "I'm glad that you liked sleeping," he smiled.

"Whatever," Sherlock said, throwing his arms in the air, "I think you really enjoy being the boss of me." He headed into the bathroom and started the bath. Then he nipped into the bedroom to get some clean pajamas, before going back and sinking into the hot water.

He closed his eyes and thought about John. He knew some of his lifestyle choices disrupted the way John lived. Some he did not intend to change; this one, though, maybe it would be all right. If he could just get more on a schedule, like John said, he could go back to feeling like himself without driving John crazy in the middle of the night.

Once the water started to cool, he got out and dressed. He brushed his teeth and moved into his bedroom, calling "Sleep well" (only slightly sarcastically) to John before shutting his bedroom door. He swallowed one of John's pills and crawled into bed. As he turned over on his side, he realised his bed hadn't felt so good in ages. It wasn't long before he was asleep.

John put his dish in the sink and reluctantly washed it up. He went back to the sofa and flopped down on it, lying on the whole thing like Sherlock always did. He smiled as he brought his fingers to his chin and said, "The genius is bored, John. Dance for me." He chuckled and looked around to make sure he was alone.

Sherlock really was something else. John flipped through the channels for a movie, turning onto his side. His mind continued to drift to Sherlock, wondering what he was thinking about in there and why he didn't like sleeping so much. Could it be just his 'better use of time' excuse? He lowered the volume a bit to listen for nightmares, just in case.

After a couple hours, Sherlock's body decided it was bored of sleeping, but apparently didn't need to feel the need to share that information with Sherlock himself. He stood up and moved to his dresser, pulling out all of his socks and setting them on his chair. Then he opened the bedroom door and walked into the kitchen. He got out a pack of biscuits and sat down at the table and began eating them.

John watched Sherlock go into the kitchen, wondering why he was up and about still. Maybe he decided he wasn't going to take the pills any more. He sat up to ask when he saw Sherlock eating. Again? He furrowed his brows. "Dinner wasn't enough?" he teased, watching him eat.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth. The crumbs tumbled down the front of his t-shirt, but he just left them there. "Hello," he said again.

"Hello," John said slowly. He looked at him curiously. "Still hungry, then?"

"These biscuits are really delicious. I'm sick of Chinese food. Where's my water?" Sherlock said.

"I don't -- you didn't have water," John said. "We can start having something else . . . maybe Thai?"

"No thank you, just water, please," Sherlock said. Soon the entire packet of biscuits was gone. "Your jumper . . . is ugly to me."

John stood up now and walked over to him, bending to look into his eyes. They were open, but they were empty. "Please, tell me how you really feel," John said, smiling very slightly. He was sleepwalking . . . this might be quite fun.

"I am thirstier than I have been in my entire life," Sherlock said, seeming to look right through John, "and I blame you and your ugly jumper for that." He pushed the crumbs on the table into one of his hands and then dumped them into his mouth.

John smiled wider. "And what exactly about my jumper makes you thirsty?" he asked, pointing to a small pile of crumbs he missed.

"Its ugliness. You normally look so pretty, John, but this one is just ridiculous," Sherlock said, emphasizing the last word by drawing a square in the air with his fingers. He bent over and pressed his tongue onto the table to get the crumbs and then stood up and leaned over the sink to drink straight out of the spigot. Then he turned around, water still dripping from his chin, and said, "Don't cry" and moved over to John, holding out his arms and hugging him. "We'll find him," he added as he patted John's back.

"Sorry, find who, exactly?" John asked, ignoring the little flip his stomach did at the contact. He had a good feeling Sherlock wouldn't remember this in the morning so he brought his hands up and hugged him lightly back.

"Your dog, isn't that why you came here so I could help you find your dog?" He squeezed him again, adding, "I won't fail you." As Sherlock stepped back, though, he lifted a hand to his head and closed his eyes. "I'm confused a bit," he said quietly.

The humour of the moment left John instantly and he moved his hands to Sherlock's arms. "Why don't you go and lie down?"

"Where? In the office?" Sherlock said. His eyes darted around the room as if he'd never seen it before. "My taxi'll be here . . . and your dog . . ." He stepped back to lean against the kitchen counter.

"You found my dog," John said. "Family is all excited." He felt a bit bad now, knowing that he was the reason Sherlock was out of his mind like this.

"Good," Sherlock said, smiling widely now. "Let's celebrate." He grabbed John's hand and pulled him to the sofa, where they both plopped down. "Let's order a drink. I'll have a water, please."

"Let me get it," John said, bringing him a glass of water and sitting next to him again. It was so strange to see him so happy instead of brooding and thinking and obsessing. It was nice. The nagging voice reminded him why but for the moment he ignored it.

"I'm so happy it's all worked out," Sherlock said. He took a drink and then handed the glass to John before leaning his head on the back of the sofa and looking up at the ceiling. "Aren't you?"

John put the glass on the table and nodded. "Yeah, I am," he said, assuming Sherlock meant the dog again and playing along.

"Good, John, good, I'm so glad. I'm so glad you're here," Sherlock tilted his head to rest it on John's shoulder. "John's dog is good," he added and then fell asleep against him.

John looked over at him and smiled softly. "Bed now," he said. But it didn't seem that Sherlock was going to move anymore. For a second John considered carrying him back to his room, but then he decided against that. He moved and laid Sherlock on the sofa, covered him up, and heading up to bed himself.

Sherlock didn't wake up until he heard John come downstairs in the morning. He sat up and stretched. "Good morning," he said to John. "Despite being proven wrong, I suppose you deserve to hear it: I feel pretty refreshed again this morning. As long as I don't nap the day away, I'm thinking this whole thing was actually the one good idea you've come up with this month." He turned around on the sofa and put his feet on the floor. "How'd the movie end then?"

"The movie was good," John nodded. "Fell asleep during it a bit, but it was all right." He watched Sherlock for any sign of him remembering the night before. Did he realise he was on the sofa?

"You should've woken me up so I could get into the bed -- I've been amazed how comfortable my bed has seemed recently. To be fair, though, the sofa wasn't bad," he stood up and stretched. "I've got to go the library today. Should we share a taxi?" he asked as he headed to his room to get dressed.

John bit his lip lightly. It worried him that Sherlock couldn't even remember going to his bed, which had happened before the pill. He made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him as he got dressed. "So . . . you feel good, then?" He asked as they hailed a cab.

"I do," Sherlock said, "but don't get too high and mighty. Clearly it didn't work as well last night if I got back up to watch the film with you. No matter -- as long as I stay feeling like this and don't get drowsy this afternoon, I'm still on board."


	3. John Likes The Changes

The taxi dropped Sherlock off first and he went straight into the library to work. He'd been there about two hours before he realised he hadn't had a cup of tea yet. This medication was really helping to maintain a good sleep pattern. He took a break at lunch and was able to enjoy his tea for the taste, rather than rely on it to wake him up.

At lunch, John thought about Sherlock's reactions last night. He remembered going to bed, but he thought he joined John to watch the movie. 

_What did you think of the movie? -JW_

John was curious about what he was going to say. In between patients he did research on the drug, avoiding the official files and looking specifically for real stories. He knew about all the testing and the side effects, but he wanted a sense of what a typical user experienced.  

Sherlock looked at his phone. In truth, he didn't really remember the movie; he assumed the pill kicked in shortly after he came out of his room, though he wasn't quite sure he remembered actually getting up and going out. Surely this was because he was so unused to deep sleep? It made sense. But John's asking didn't make sense, which could only mean one thing: he must have chosen the film and now he's angry that Sherlock had fallen asleep. He got so defensive about the strangest things.

_I'm sorry, John. I don't really remember it. Do you want me to watch this afternoon so we can talk about it? SH_

_No, no. Don't worry. I was just curious since I fell asleep for some of it and don't remember. It's fine. -JW_

John had been expecting Sherlock to spout out some plot along the lines of a missing pet, but it seemed he really had no memory of the night. But he decided to let his own little experiment continue. On his way home John picked up Thai food, even though there were leftovers, wondering if Sherlock was going to say anything about it. 

Sherlock's taxi pulled up as John was unlocking the flat's door. "Hey, you," he said, which he realised was kind of an odd thing to say. And he was smiling as well, what was going on with that? Had sleep deprivation affected him so much that he hadn't had the energy to smile before? "What's in the bag?" he asked as they walked up the stairs to the flat.

"I got Thai food tonight, something different," he shrugged. He felt his stomach flip again at Sherlock's greeting -- somehow more personal than it usually was. And that smile -- not his usual sarcastic grin, but a genuine smile as if he was so happy to see John. John straightened his own face and led the way up to the flat. 

"Thai? Since when do you like Thai food? Did last night's dinner upset your stomach or something?" he instinctively put his hand on his stomach before realising it hadn't been bothering him at all.

"No," John shook his head. He felt defensive suddenly, like he'd given away too much of something shameful he'd done. "I just wanted to try something different. If you don't like it, there are leftovers in the fridge."

"I quite like Thai food actually," Sherlock said. He took off his coat and flicked through the post.

"John, I wanted your medical opinion on something actually," he said, moving to the kitchen to help with the food. "I know it might be a little premature, but do you think these pills could be affecting my metabolism in some way? I mean, last night I know I ate dinner but I didn't think I ate any more than usual . . . but I felt really full when I woke up, really satisfied. You know usually I don't care about food one way or the other -- when you bully me into eating, I just eat and that's that. I rarely feel hungry or full. Do you think it's some kind of side effect? Is it a problem?"

John looked over at him and wondered how much to say. What could he convince Sherlock of? If he mentioned the odd behaviour and Sherlock didn't remember it, he might worry. John decided not to mention the fact that he ate a whole packet of biscuits. "Um, yeah," he nodded. "It curbs your appetite so when you do eat, it feels like you're just piling on, you know? It's completely normal . . . just keep eating how you always do. It's fine. Sofa again?" he asked, picking up his plate.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, carrying his plate in to the sitting room. "Another movie?"

John nodded. "Let's see what we find," he said, flipping through the channels. He finally settled on one of the X-men movies -- he always forgot which was which -- and he started eating. "This all right?" he asked Sherlock, realising he didn't know what sort of movies Sherlock liked. 

"Sure, whatever," Sherlock said, yawning. "Jesus, John, this is odd. I didn't sleep this afternoon, which was very good, but I'm starting to feel tired already. Is this how normal people are? Do normal people really go tired this early? Maybe I don't need a pill tonight?"

"If you don't think you do, then you don't have to take it," John said. He ignored the pang of disappointment he felt -- instead of getting sleepy he was feeling excited about what might happen. "But don't worry -- your body is just regulating itself to an 8-hour sleeping cycle," he said, mixing his food around his plate. 

"Two nights, though? You said it didn't cure things that quickly. Anyway, I told you I'd give it two weeks, it'd be a poor showing of me to only give it two days. I mean, the only side effects I've had have been good sleep and feeling satisfied by food -- those are hardly troubling, really." He ate some food. "I'm not good with change sometimes. As you probably know." He tried to focus on the film, but he didn't find it all that interesting. When he finished his food, he pushed the plate away and curled his legs underneath him.

"See? It's doing good things for you," John smiled. He started tilting towards Sherlock, ready to lean on his shoulder, before he remembered suddenly that Sherlock wouldn't remember doing that last night. He quickly righted himself and got up for water to cover it up. His face was burning, and he hoped it hadn't gone red. To be safe he took his time coming back to the sofa, picking up his meal again.

Sherlock leaned forward and picked up the glass of water. "Thanks," he said taking a drink. "That food must have been salty." Then he sat up, "I'll get a pill."

"Okay. Are you laying down, then?" John asked, turning to watch him disappear into his room.

"No, I'll come back," he went into his bedroom and spilled a pill into his palm and swallowed it with a sip of water. He sat down on the bed for a minute. It was strange, John bringing home Thai food. The entire time he'd lived here, he'd always chosen Chinese. Why the change now? He had no idea. He guessed this must be the way normal brains worked. He'd have to think about it tomorrow -- he took a notepad from his drawer and wrote 'Thai food' to remind himself to think about it. He dropped it back into the drawer and changed into his pajamas. He slid into bed, completely forgetting about the movie and his promise to return to it.

After a few minutes John called over his shoulder for Sherlock, wondering what was taking so long. He strained his ears and didn't hear anything. Had he fallen asleep already? John shrugged and lay down on the sofa again, turning on his side. He was debating going to bed after the movie -- it was almost done now -- but wondered if he should stay on the sofa to better hear Sherlock. What if he got up and did something dangerous? The fact that he wasn't stopping Sherlock from taking the pills was enough to make him stay right there on the sofa. 

Sherlock's body woke up and carried him and his brain back into the sitting room. This time he sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. He opened his email and starting typing furiously, but with only one finger, hitting the keys much harder than needed.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, sitting up and watching him at the desk.

"John," Sherlock responded. "Can you turn that down? I'm trying to work. Seriously, John, please." His voice had the tone as if this had been the twentieth time he'd ask John to do this.

John muted the telly. "What are you working on?"

"Emails," Sherlock said, "There's been some things I've been meaning to tell people for years and now seemed like a good time. Don't worry -- you'll be getting one from me as well." He was staring through the screen as he typed.

John got up quickly and shut the computer lid. "Why don't you do that in the morning?" God knew what he was going to send and if he didn't remember, they'd both be in trouble.

Sherlock pulled his fingers back as John slammed shut the computer. "Fine, I'll just say it to your face then. Why have you been filling my secret drawer with envelopes with your name on them? Can you just answer that question for once in your life, please?"

"What secret drawer?" John asked. "What envelopes?"

"Very clever," Sherlock said. "All right, then. We'll leave it at that. Just know . . . I know." He winked, nodding his head. "Anyway, what were we talking about? Your bedroom. Do you agree with me or not?"

"Go back to the drawer -- what secret drawer is this?" John asked, his curiosity rising. He knew he'd never be able to ask in the morning: now was his chance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's called a secret drawer because it's . . . a secret," he said whispering and lifting an index finger to his lips. He stood up. "Water," he announced and walked to the kitchen and tilted his head under the tap again. Then he sat down at the table and stretched his arm underneath it, pulling out a packet of cigarettes he had taped to its underside. He stood up, turned on a burner on the hob and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply.

"No, you don't," John said, taking the cigarette and throwing it in the sink. He turned the water on and snatched the pack away. "Tell me about the drawer. Please?"

"I've already told you three times, John! It's the secret drawer where I keep my secrets!" Sherlock threw up his arms but then stepped over to John and hugged him. "I'm so sorry, John. Please forgive me," he said into John's shoulder.

"I . . . of course I do," John said, hugging Sherlock back. He liked that Sherlock was being physical like this so that when John hugged him it wasn't strange. "I'm sorry I was prying. You don't have to tell me about the drawer."

"I didn't want you to find out this way," Sherlock said, still embracing him. "Will you promise to forget about the envelopes?"

"I promise, Sherlock. I'm sorry," he said. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock tighter, turning his head to breathe him in. He was enjoying this a lot more than he should be. 

"I'm so tired. Will you please take me to bed?" Sherlock said, still not moving from the embrace.

"Yes," John nodded. "Come on, then," he said, moving back to take hold of his hand, trying to pull him along.

"Are we going to my room?" Sherlock said, holding John's hand.

"Yes," John nodded. "You said you wanted to go to bed, yeah?" He walked slowly, pulling Sherlock along with him. In his room he looked around and wondered if the secret drawer was in here. But he wasn't going to look. "Come on."

Sherlock pulled John onto the bed with him. "I'm so tired, John," he said, moving to curl around John's body. "I love Thai food," he added in a quiet, sleepy voice.

"Sherlock, no," John said, squirming to get up. "Let me up," he said gently. If he stayed here and Sherlock woke up holding him -- what would he say? How would he explain that? He wouldn't be able to without admitting what the pills were doing. "Let me up, Sherlock . . ."

"John, I promise I won't, just stay for three minutes, please," he wrapped his arms around John's chest.

John bit his lip and nodded, reaching up to cover one of his hands. "Three minutes," John said finally. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and this time he was true to his word: he was asleep before three minutes had passed.

John felt his arms slacken, but he didn't get up just yet. He traced Sherlock's hand, liked his breath grazing the back of his neck, and enjoyed the warmth of his body. And then he started to feel ashamed because Sherlock had no idea what was going on. He eased himself out of Sherlock's arms, covered him up, and left, going up to his own room. He sighed and rubbed his face hard, climbing into bed. It was a long time before he fell asleep. His mind was going in circles thinking about his guilt over what was happening to Sherlock, then thinking about how they were actually helping him, and then the personality changes it was causing, and then how much he was enjoying them, and then he was back on guilt. 

A few hours after John left his room, Sherlock's body got up again. He went into the kitchen and ate the leftover Chinese and Thai food before going back into his room to sleep again.

John was still up when he heard movement, and he came to the stairs to see. He didn't want to be seen, didn't want to cause another scene -- to remind Sherlock that John hadn't stayed. All Sherlock did was eat and then he went back to his room. John went to his own bed and forced himself to clear his mind, falling asleep minutes later. 

In the morning, Sherlock woke refreshed and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He saw the empty food cartons and was quite surprised John had left such a mess. He remembered the strangeness of John's bringing home Thai food and thought perhaps he could work on that mystery today.


	4. Sherlock Gets Suspicious

John slept in later than he should have and he called Sarah to tell her he wasn't going to be in today. He put his dressing gown on and headed downstairs in his pajamas. "Good morning," he said, pouring himself tea.

Sherlock had already moved to his desk. "Good morning," he said. "Sleep okay?" He opened up his email and had a message from Lestrade that just said "Get yourself under control." Then he noticed an email in his Draft folder. He clicked on it. It was addressed to John and the subject line was 'Envelopes.' He quickly shut the computer. "Heading off to work soon?" he asked.

"I'm not going in today," John said, moving to his chair. "My shift started two hours ago," he smiled. "What are you doing there?"

"Nothing. Well, I don't want to disturb you," Sherlock said, standing up with his laptop and mug in hand. "I'll work in my room for a while."

"Oh, I'm just going to be on the blog or reading," John said, watching him get up. 

"Okay then, well, you'll want it quiet," Sherlock said, disappearing into his room. He shut and locked the door. He opened his laptop and clicked on the draft message to John. It was blank except for the subject line. He looked at Lestrade's message: he had no idea what it meant. He opened his Sent folder. There was a message to Lestrade that read simply 'Silver hair.' There was one to Mycroft that said 'Cake.' What was going on?

Had John been using his laptop? If so, what were these cryptic messages about? And more importantly, did he know about the envelopes? Sherlock picked up his phone and sent a text to Mrs Hudson.

_I need John out of the flat for 10 minutes. Could you please provide a distraction? SH_

A few minutes later, he heard Mrs Hudson's voice at the door.

"It's embarrassing, John, but I can't find my car keys. Could you just come down and look for me? I'm sure it's one of those, you know, hiding-in-plain-sight things, but I'm driving myself batty looking," her voice said to John.

"Of course," John said, calling out to Sherlock that he was going down to Mrs Hudson's. He followed her and started to look around her flat, wondering what she needed her keys for anyways. As long as he knew her, she took cabs wherever she went. "Do you remember where you had them last?" he asked, but she gave a vague answer and disappeared into the kitchen. He furrowed his brows but kept looking around for the keys. 

Mrs Hudson returned with a cup of tea and some biscuits, handing the cup to John. She slipped her hand into her pocket, jingling her keys, and said, "They were here the whole time, sorry! But let's have a sit for a minute. Why aren't you at work today?"

Upstairs Sherlock had pushed his wardrobe away from the wall and was squeezing his arm underneath the thin area between the floor and the wardrobe's bottom. He pulled a small wooden box from its magnetic hold and set it before him on the floor. He opened a door on front with a small key and slid out the drawer that the opened door revealed. Inside were the envelopes. He counted all twenty seven of them. All still with John's name on front and SH in Sherlock's handwriting across the back seal. He closed and locked the box again, slid it back under wardrobe and pushed that back against the wall.

It was unlikely John had found the envelopes, and he certainly hadn't read them. What was going on? Why would John use Sherlock's account to send himself an email anyway? The emails to Lestrade and Mycroft were odd, but maybe John had a drink and got tipsy after Sherlock had gone to sleep and thought he'd send them to be funny. Which didn't really seem like something John would do, but it's the best Sherlock could come up with. But why the Envelopes email? And was this in any way related to the Thai food?

Sherlock's brain felt so confused, but it shouldn't be -- it should be rested. His body felt rested, the pills were definitely helping with that. He looked over at the bedside table at the bottle of pills. Maybe it's just that his brain was a special case -- holding out a little longer to be affected than his body was. He picked up the bottle and took one of the pills. He went into the bathroom to have a quick shower.

Downstairs John and Mrs Hudson were talking. "Oh, I stayed up too late last night watching a movie and then I forgot to set my alarm and I slept in too late," John said. "I know that's a bit silly, but there's another doctor now so they will be okay." He looked up when he heard the shower running and sipped at his tea. He didn't like how Sherlock had locked himself in his room, and he wondered now if this was all a ruse to get him out of the flat. His mind drifted to the envelopes and the secret drawer. He wished he could ask Sherlock. 

"Okay, dear," she said, glancing at her watch. "You'd best be on your way then." She stood up and took the cup from John's hand. "Thanks again for the help with the keys."

"Yeah, any time," John smiled, heading back upstairs. He heard the shower still going and he looked around, biting his lip. _No. Sit down and work on your blog. Forget the drawer. Aren't you doing enough to him_? John pinched his nose and sighed. He sank into his chair and opened his laptop. Maybe it was time he took the pills back. But what would he tell Sherlock? What reasons could he give when they were actually leaving him rested and energised? 

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and dried off before slipping on his dressing gown and coming out of the steam-filled bathroom. He noticed that John had returned. He poured himself a glass of water and said, "John, I think I'm going to lie down for a bit. I know I've not been up long, but I think my body's getting more sleep than my brain so I thought I might help it catch up. I don't know if you wanted to do anything today since you've taken the day off, but I'm afraid I'll have to take a pass. I'll be in my room if you need me."

"Oh, yeah," John nodded. Then he looked up a bit hopefully. "Do you feel all right? Are the pills bothering you? You can stop them if they are, I don't mind." He waited to see what Sherlock was going to say about that and hoped he wasn't coming off as too suspicious. 

Sherlock looked at John suspiciously. "Yes, I'm fine. Is everything fine with you?"

"Yes, of course," John said, "go on to bed. I'll just be here if you need anything."

Sherlock headed for his bedroom and then turned and asked, "One quick question: when was the last time you communicated with Mycroft?"

John furrowed his brows. "Mycroft? I haven't spoken to him in ages," he said. "Why?"

"Not spoken," Sherlock clarified, "communicated."

"I haven't had anything to do with your brother, Sherlock. Why are you asking me this?"

Sherlock looked at John suspiciously again, but it appeared he was telling the truth. "Okay, just curious, I guess. I'll rest now. If you go out, please leave a note so I know when to expect you back." He went back into his room and got into bed.

Sherlock turned onto his side. His eyes felt heavy so he closed them. He tried to remember a few days ago, when John was giving him the massage and had told him to turn off his mind, and he wondered if he'd be able to do that now. He looked at the blackness behind his eyelids and imagined John rubbing his back. He concentrated on what that would feel like. And he fell asleep.

John watched him go and wondered if maybe he'd managed to send an email before John closed the computer last night. Had he found it this morning? John closed his eyes and pressed his palms into them. He had to stop this. He was just going to tell Sherlock that the pills were making him sleep eat and they had to be stopped. He didn't need to know any more details. And if John put a stop to it, he could avoid Sherlock finding out on his own and then being mad at John for not doing anything about it. As soon as Sherlock woke up he was going to tell him to give them back. 

After a short while, Sherlock's body was bored again. It let his mind sleep but reached over for Sherlock's phone and sent John a text.

_Bored. Please come in and entertain me. SH_

John glanced at the message, getting up and going to Sherlock's room. "I thought you were going to sleep?" he asked as he entered Sherlock's room. 

"I am," Sherlock said, his voice quiet and rather flat. "But I need you. Come get by me, please."

John's brows twitched together. He sounded . . . off. "Sherlock? What's the matter with you?"

"I told you, I'm bored and I need you," Sherlock said. He pulled the covers back. "Lie down with me, will you? You did when you massaged me, remember? I'd just like you to do it again, please."

"Oh. Well, turn on your stomach," John said, approaching the edge of the bed. He was wary about climbing on because of the way Sherlock had held him the night before. When Sherlock turned he knelt on the bed and started to rub his shoulders.

"Okay," Sherlock said, twisting himself around. "Now let me do you." He softly pushed John down onto the bed but instead of massaging him, he just slid his arms around John, spooning him.

John swore silently. "Sherlock . . . let me up," he said. "You're only supposed to take those at night -- " he added, noticing the bottle on Sherlock's table.

"I needed more rest, the sleep . . . it just makes me feel good," Sherlock said. He pressed himself against John's back. "Please. I'm asking nicely."

"I know but . . . I can't," he said, squirming to get away. "You're drugged -- you don't even know its happening. Let me up," he asked again, quietly this time. 

"Wouldn't it be nice though? Just us. Wouldn't it be nice?" he tried to slip his arms back around John's belly.

"Yes," John admitted. "But when you are awake, when I know you want to. When I know you'll remember," he mumbled. "Please . . . let me up." 

"You'll never let me when I'm awake, you never have," Sherlock said. "You never have after all this time."

"I will," John promised. "I will if you ask me, okay? I -- I want to, Sherlock, I do. But you have to be awake."

"Do you wish I had silver hair?" Sherlock asked, fiddling with John's hair.

"No, I don't," John said, closing his eyes. "I like your hair the way it is now." He tried to push away, tried to get up again. 

"I like your hair the way it is now," Sherlock said softly.

John nodded, realising that he'd stopped struggling. "Sherlock, please . . .," he said, his voice quiet and holding no real conviction. 

"Just kiss," Sherlock said.

"Not while you're on the pills," he said. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Will you stay here with me? Just stay?"

"When you wake up, I won't be able to explain," John said quietly. 

"Shhh, envelopes . . . " Sherlock rolled over and closed his eyes.

John got out of the bed quickly, turning to stare down at him. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly, covering him up. John took the pills and left the room, feeling worse than ever. 


	5. Sherlock Tests John

Sherlock slept for a while and when it finally ended, both his brain and body woke up. He turned over and looked at the pillow on the other side of the bed. He had a vague memory of John being there. He realised that he had quite a few vague memories as of late. He looked over at the bedside table, and the pills were gone. And that's when it all became clear.

He got up and went into the sitting room. "Hi, John," he said.

John's stomach twisted with nerves and guilt as he saw Sherlock come into the sitting room. "How did you sleep?" John asked, smiling over at him. Normal. He just had to act normally.

"Fine, good, it's all good," Sherlock said, plopping down onto the sofa. "I had an interesting dream."

"Oh? What was it about?"

"Well, I'll be honest, John," Sherlock said. "It was about you . . . and me. We were . . . kissing. I hope this doesn't make you feel uncomfortable. I mean, I know -- the whole world knows -- you're not gay, you've made that very clear. Let's not make a big thing about it, okay? After all, it was just my subconscious, right? It's not like that'd happen when I was awake and we were in our right minds, would it?" He watched John's face for every reaction.

John dropped his eyes at the word 'kissing' and fiddled with the book in his hands. And then Sherlock was talking about it never happening in real life and his stomach was dropping unpleasantly. "I -- right, right, of course," he nodded. He kept his eyes on the book.

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. It's just I know we like to be honest with each other, don't we? I'm sorry . . . I feel like I've put you in an uncomfortable situation, like you're worried I'm going to come try to kiss you now," Sherlock said, sitting up on the sofa.

"No," John said, looking over at him. "Don't be silly -- I don't mind that you told me. I -- was I good?" he teased, trying to keep it light. _Honest_. He'd tell Sherlock he threw the pills out. Soon.

"Quite," Sherlock said standing up and moving to his desk. "Anyway, let's put that out of our minds, shall we?" He opened his laptop. "You don't want to kiss me and you don't want me to kiss you, so we'll just call it a silly dream. Look, are you planning on showering or getting dressed at all today?" he said, motioning to the fact that John looked pretty much the same as he had all day.

"Do I offend?" John asked in mock offense. "I showered yesterday for work, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm comfortable."

"You do, but it's a free country, I suppose you can stink if you want to," Sherlock said. He shifted his angle slightly so he could open his laptop without its screen being seen, but without calling any attention to it. He was much better at being subtle than John was. He quickly Googled the medication's side effects and saw this his suspicions were correct. He closed the window and opened a new one.

So the weirdness of the past few days was due to the drugs. As a doctor ( _his_ doctor), John must have known this could happen. Very interesting.

"Should we go out for dinner this evening or are we ordering in again?" Sherlock asked.

"We can go out tonight," John said. "I suppose I'll shower before that. Sherlock." He fiddled with his book and looked up again. "I want you to stop taking the pills," he said quickly.

"Just because of the dream?" Sherlock said, turning to look at him.

"No!" John shook his head. "You've been sleepwalking -- eating all the food in the flat. I'm worried."

"When's this been happening then?" Sherlock said. "Just now . . . or since the beginning?"

"Since the first day," he admitted. "I'm sorry -- I thought, it would pass but it didn't."

"I see. Walking and eating. Well, that explains the feeling full thing. Your explanation about that . . . was a lie, then?"

"I was so adamant about it, and I wanted it to work. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock thought carefully. "I suppose I'm curious as to why you're telling me now. If this has been going on the whole time . . . even if you were just being hopeful, why give up hope right now?"

"I told you, I'm worried. I don't like that it's happening," he said. He was trying to keep calm and not sound desperate or panicked. "Anyways, I threw them out so . . . I'm sorry, okay?"

"Is it likely there will be any long term effects?" Sherlock asked.

"None that I have heard of, but I don't want to risk it," John said. 

"Well, I don't think I want to stop taking them. I mean, they are helping me sleep which is making me feel better within myself and at least I'm not disturbing you anymore. If the only things I've been doing are walking and eating, those aren't too bad. You always say I don't eat enough anyway. We can lock up the chemicals and do something to secure the door, and I won't come to any mischief. I can finish this bottle and once the two weeks are up, I'll stop."

"I told you I already threw them out. We can . . . find something else for your sleeping. Something without side effects. What if you eat something that's not food?" he asked, trying to think of anything to dissuade him without revealing the truth. _Not to mention the fact that you turn into a horn-dog when you take them_. He imagined the little Sherlock in his head raising his brows at that since really, it hadn't been that extreme. _But you liked it._ He ignored that voice completely despite his stomach twisting again. "I have been too worried to sleep properly anyways so . . . it's fine. I don't mind being bothered." 

"Interesting," Sherlock said. "Fine, let me know when you're ready to go to dinner." He turned back to his computer.

John sat there for a moment longer before he was unable to take the silence. He opened his mouth and then closed it tight. He imagined saying it. _Actually Sherlock, you also invited me into your bed and kept asking me to kiss you._ But now they had ended that conversation so it would silly to bring it up now. He sighed and got up, going to his room for fresh clothes and coming back down to take a shower. He took his time in there, letting the water run over his face for a long time as he tried to ease his guilt. It was over now. The pills were in the trash, Sherlock wasn't going to take them anymore, and everything could get back to normal. He got out and changed, fixed up his hair a bit and joined him in the sitting room again, pulling out his book. 

After a while, Sherlock said, "Should we go to dinner then? What do you fancy?"

"Let's just do our usual, we haven't had Italian in a while," he said. And then, to drive home how strange his eating was to make the idea of stopping the pills more acceptable, he added, "You said in one of your binges that you were bored of Chinese, that's why I brought home Thai. I wanted to see if you remembered." He felt bad again, like he was experimenting on him, but Sherlock had _actually_ done that to him before so maybe he shouldn't feel that bad. 

"I see," Sherlock said. "Angelo's is fine." He grabbed his coat and scarf and led them down to get a taxi.

At the restaurant, Sherlock looked at the menu with a frown. "You know, John, I'm not even very hungry now. See? With some people, it's mind over matter. My brain is clearly stronger than any pill you give me."

"You were the one that suggested dinner," John reminded him. "Just get something small."

When Angelo came, Sherlock ordered a salad and some bread. "And a glass of red, please, Angelo," he added. He looked at John. "Well, I'll need something to help me sleep, won't I, now that you've drawn the line on the pills."

"I wasn't going to say anything," John said, putting his hands up. He ordered chicken alfredo and looked at Sherlock again. "I'm sorry I pushed them on you," he said again. Maybe if he apologised for that enough times, he could pretend Sherlock was forgiving him for the other lies. 

"All right, John," Sherlock said, sounding a little annoyed. "Stop making a bloody fuss. Is this how you are with all your patients if a treatment doesn't work?" He took a drink of wine. "Of course, this one did work. But whatever, you've made it clear -- you regret my taking them. Let's move on." He took a bite of salad, but it didn't taste very good to him.

"All right," John said, a bit taken aback by his temper. He cut into his lasagna and just focused on that, eating silently. 

"Are you going into work tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, trying to start a normal conversation.

"No, it was my scheduled day off. I'm sure I can find something to do, though," he said. 

"I've got to go back to the library, you could come with me if you like," Sherlock said. Their conversation went back to being pretty normal for the rest of the meal. Sherlock had a second glass of wine and managed to eat most of what he had ordered. They decided to walk back to the flat.

Once they got back, Sherlock put the kettle on and went to the bathroom while it boiled. There, he saw the bottle of pills in the bin and pocketed it, before going back to the kitchen to pour the tea.

"Great, thanks," John said, taking the mug from him. He opened his book to go back to reading, shifting to get comfortable in his chair. 

Sherlock sat on the sofa. He drank his tea, occasionally glancing over at John to try to read his face. Did he really think this was all over with? He might be finished with his little experiment, but Sherlock's had only just begun.

Once he finished his tea, he said, "I think I'll get ready for bed." He went into his bedroom and changed into his pajamas. He poured the pills from the pill bottle into a drawer and came back to the sitting room, saying, "I think actually I will try to go to bed now, after all." He moved to the kitchen and grabbed the packet of biscuits. "I'd like to take three of these to my bedroom with me, John. I'm fully aware of what I'm doing. Do you permit me to do this, Doctor?"

John rolled his eyes. "Look, I said I was sorry," he said. "I already feel bad enough -- you don't have to patronize me."

"Don't be so tetchy, John," Sherlock said. When John looked away, Sherlock set the empty pill bottle in the middle of the table and then called good night as he headed off into his room, closing the door behind him.

After a while, John noticed something was on the table -- he couldn't explain what drew his eyes to it, but his stomach twisted unpleasantly when he saw the bottle of pills. He got up to take it and swore. It was empty. "Sherlock?" he called, hurrying to his room and knocking loudly. "Sherlock, don't take them -- not that many!"

Sherlock had already prepared his room. He was lying quietly in bed, waiting for John to come in.


	6. John Is Caught

"Sherlock?" John called again, and when he didn't answer John just went in, dropping the bottle and going straight to the bed. "Hey," he said, pushing on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock?"

"Envelopes," Sherlock said, opening his eyes slightly. He was going for a kind of dazed, empty look and was surprised at quite how easily he could adopt one.

John swore softly and knelt beside the bed. "How many did you take, Sherlock? Do you remember how many pills you took?" _Ask about the envelopes!_ John ignored the voice in his worry. 

"Lie down by me," Sherlock said, pulling on John's shoulders.

"If I do, will you tell me how many pills you took?" John knew it was pointless -- Sherlock was barely conscious and probably had no idea what John was saying to him. He resisted the pull, looking around for any extra pills.

"Yes, I will tell you anything if you just get by me," Sherlock said.

John hesitated. He sighed and climbed into the bed. "You know I can't sleep here, okay?" 

"I didn't invite you to sleep here," Sherlock said, curling around John to spoon him. He reached for a biscuit and pushed it around John's head into his face. "You're hungry," he said, realising he probably shouldn't be enjoying this quite so much.

"I'm not," John said, taking the biscuit out of his hand. "Do you remember how many pills you took?" 

"A few," Sherlock said. "My doctor gave them to me."

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Stupidest thing he ever did. You should try and rest, okay?" He made to get up, pushing himself up. 

Sherlock held onto John's arm to keep him from moving. "Any more questions?" he asked, letting it hang there in the air.

John sighed and stopped struggling. He knew he'd have to just wait it out until he fell asleep. And as he wasn't going to remember anything anyways. "Tell me about the envelopes," he whispered. He closed his eyes as his stomach churned with guilt. But he was so curious.

"Kiss me first," Sherlock said.

"I've already told you, you have to ask when you're not high on sleeping pills," John said. 

"Kiss and I'll show you the envelopes," Sherlock said, trailing a finger across John's chest.

John's brain was at war with itself, curiosity and guilt screaming at him. "Can't . . . can’t we do both when you wake up? You can write yourself a note." His voice was soft, without much conviction. He was suddenly fighting off a new desire -- if he kissed Sherlock now, he could see what it was like without being rejected. Or made fun of. Sherlock's not being conscious could actually be a benefit. _But you're not a pervert!_ he reminded himself.

"I don't understand, I remember everything always, John. I found your cat, didn't I?" Sherlock twisted John's shoulders so they were facing each other. "Just one kiss because I'm tired, please," Sherlock said.

"Just one and you'll go to sleep?" John said quietly, as if that would make it better. They were so close, and he was so bloody handsome and that voice -- that soft, deep voice asking for kisses from him. Shame rushed into John's chest but he tried to push it back. 

"And the envelopes," Sherlock said, as he slipped his arms around John's shoulders and pressed himself against his chest. He put his lips close to John's but didn't kiss him.

John squeezed his eyes shut, swore softly, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. For one second he marveled at how nice it was. And then the shame surged up and he thought he was going to be sick. He pulled his head back and squirmed out of his grasp, falling onto the floor before standing. "Go . . . go to sleep, Sherlock," he said, covering his face. 

Sherlock stood up, pulled John's hands away and softly kissed his mouth again. He let his lips linger there as one hand slipped to the back of John's head. In truth, he had wanted to do this for a long time -- long before the sleeping pills had ever come into the flat. At first he'd felt so reluctant to admit his attraction to John even to himself and John had been so damn adamant that there was nothing between the two of them but friendship. But now, he was kissing John, and even though it was a bit sneaky, Sherlock was glad it was happening.

"Damn it," John sighed, gripping his curls and kissing him hard. He pressed into the kiss, his free hand gripping Sherlock's t-shirt and holding him close. It was so good -- good enough to push away whatever guilt he'd been holding on to. He forgot about Sherlock's being out of his mind, forgot that he was going to forget all of this -- only the taste of the kiss mattered now.

Sherlock slid a hand to the small of John's back, pressing softly. He parted his lips and let his tongue slip into John's mouth. He didn't know if this would ever happen again, and he wanted to memorise every detail.

John moaned softly, bringing his tongue out to meet Sherlock's, pressing his body against him as his arm properly draped over his neck. 

Sherlock slid his hand up John's arm and then stepped back, still holding John's hand. He led John's hand to the bedside drawer and opened it, exposing all the spilled out pills. He sat down on the bed and said, "Sit down, John. I think we need to have a talk."

John stared at the pills. He was sure he was going to pass out. His vision was becoming oddly tunnel-like, and he felt like jelly had replaced his legs. Somehow, he made it to the edge of the bed without falling. He gripped the blanket, his knuckles white and his eyes fixed on the drawer. His brain wasn't forming words. His mouth couldn't even make sounds. Sherlock hadn't taken the pills? Then . . .all of this? He couldn't understand what had just happened. 

"In Dartmoor, I gave you sugar that I thought might contain a dangerous substance, which was probably wrong to do, but as you know I was hoping the experiment would give me information I needed about Henry's case," Sherlock said softly. "Your experiment these past few days . . . I need to know, was the result you were looking for that kiss or something else . . . like finding out one of my secrets?"

John shook his head. He swallowed hard to get his mouth working again. "There -- there was no experiment, Sherlock. There wasn't, I swear, not at first. I just wanted you to sleep better -- I wanted to sleep better. And then you were doing silly things like eating biscuits and talking about finding my dog and . . . and I admit I thought it was a bit funny. But then you were talking about a secret drawer and then pulling me into your bed and asking me to kiss you, and it wasn't funny anymore. I felt like I was taking advantage of you. I didn't like it. But I didn't know how to tell you so I just asked you to stop. I just wanted things to be like before . . ."  

"Then why did you just kiss me?"

John's face flooded with heat and he felt dizzy again. "Because I -- I have thought about it for quite a bit and every time you asked I got all -- all flustered and I wished -- I wished you would have remembered to ask me when you weren't out of it. And now -- just now you were so . . ." He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I need to ask you two questions and I need you to be absolutely honest with me: was that our first kiss and do you know what's inside the envelopes? I might have been faking tonight, but I really don't have clear memories of everything that happened the other times. I feel I deserve honest answers to those two questions," Sherlock said.

"That was our first kiss and I have no idea what the envelopes are," John said. "Sherlock, I swear."

"Thank you for being honest," Sherlock said. "Do you think . . . that will also be our last kiss?"

"I wouldn't blame you if it was," John said. "I didn't know you felt like that about me . . ."

"I appreciate that you did not know," Sherlock said. He sat quietly a few more minutes, staring at the floor. Then he moved his hand over to rest on John's. "But I do."

John finally looked up at his face, meeting his eyes. "I don't know what to say, Sherlock."

"Say the truth," Sherlock said, not looking away.

"I love you," he said. "I don't know since when . . . bit of a blur, really. But I know that I do now."

"Drugging me helped prove it to you?" Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

"No!" John said quickly. "But -- but that was the first time you asked for a kiss and I did like how it sounded." 

"But you didn't kiss me?"

"No. You didn't know what you were saying. That would have been a terrible thing to do and, well, I didn't want you to not remember our first kiss. Which is stupid because I gave in this time." He sighed heavily. "If you hadn't been faking it and that happened, I think I would have moved out."

"Don't be so dramatic, John," Sherlock said. "You can't be blamed for falling for one of my tricks. I am quite good at them, you know." His fingers lightly stroked John's hand. "Do you think you might still like the sound of my asking you to kiss me?"

John met his gaze and nodded. "Yeah, I think I would," he murmured. 

Sherlock turned a little and said, "John, will you kiss me, please?"

John nodded, leaning closer. He brought his hand to Sherlock's cheek, stroked his thumb once before closing the space, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. 

The kiss felt just as nice as the first one. Sherlock leaned into John, wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock took the kiss and Sherlock kissed back.

John brought his other hand to Sherlock's chest, resting it there as he flicked his tongue out, asking for entrance -- for more. 

Sherlock pulled John over on the bed, so they were lying face to face. He separated his lips and let John's tongue into his mouth. He shifted his body so he was pressed against him and he tangled their legs together.

John huffed out a breath as the kiss deepened, sliding his hand around to Sherlock's back now. The body contact felt incredible.

Sherlock felt his heart beating in his chest and an urge building in his belly. He slipped his mouth from John's and dragged it down to his neck, kissing and sucking the skin.

"Oh," John breathed, clutching at his hair. "Sherlock . . that's . . ." He trailed off into a sigh, tilting his head.  

Sherlock slid his hand underneath John's jumper and pulled tightly on his shirt. He inched himself just a little closer -- there really was no space between him but he just wanted to be closer.

"Off," John mumbled, "let's take that off." He grabbed his own jumper and tried to lift both over his head, sitting up a bit to do it. As soon as he lay back down he started pushing at Sherlock's shirt, touching as much skin as he could. 

Sherlock took off his shirt and pulled John to him, feeling their bare chests touching for the first time. Both of their skin was warm, and Sherlock let his hands move over John's back. He said John's name and kissed his mouth again.

John moaned into the kiss, his hands moving constantly to touch everything--to feel everything and memorise his skin. Then he dragged his own mouth to Sherlock's neck, tasting him, sucking and nipping at his skin. 

"John, that feels so good," Sherlock moaned quietly. He let his head fall back as John kissed his neck.

"You're intoxicating," John said, with a small bite, licking over the spot.

John's bite made Sherlock's hips instinctively buck. He was hard and wanted to feel the pressure of John's body, wanted to move himself against John, but didn't know if he should

Still sucking on a new spot now, John gripped Sherlock's hip and encouraged his movement, bucking his own hips to meet him. 

Sherlock began to rock against John. The weight of John's body felt good and the friction against it was causing electricity through him. He moved his hands to John's hair and let his fingers get lost in it as he was getting lost in what was happening. "John, I've wanted this for so long," he whispered.

John nodded, panting softly now. "Sherlock, I want it now," he moaned. He'd be lying if he said he'd been thinking about taking Sherlock to bed for a long time, but now he felt as if nothing else mattered in the world. Nothing was as important as this.

Sherlock slid his hands to the waistband at the back of John's trousers. Then he moved one in between their bodies. He slipped open the button and said, "Do you want to take these off?"

John nodded. "Yes," he moaned softly, squirming to get them off, pushing them down as soon as Sherlock managed the button. His pants were bulging, and there was a small wet spot already. 

Sherlock slid his hand down to palm John's cock. Just the touch almost made him shiver. He pulled on John's pants to removed them and then wrapped his fingers around his cock, smearing the precome as he began a steady stroke.

"Jesus . . .," John moaned, his breathing erratic and heavy. His fingers scrambled to the top of Sherlock's pajamas, trying to pry them off, tugging sloppily at the elastic. 

Sherlock lifted his hips to help John take his pajamas down. Then he kissed John's mouth hard again, nipping at his bottom lip as he continued to stroke his cock.

Sherlock's body responded to John's touch and his hips began rolling first and then bucking into John's hand. "John," he said in between short gasps of air, "I don't know how long I can last -- it's seems like forever that I've wanted this . . ."

John nodded. "I know," he said breathlessly. "It's okay," he panted. His hand moved faster, shifting to hold him better, to swipe his thumb over the tip and make his movements slicker. 

"God, John," Sherlock moaned and tried to concentrate on the movement of his hand. He tightened his grip a little and sped up, twisting a bit when he reached the tip before sliding back down to the base. He couldn't believe this was happening, that John wanted it to happen.

"Sherlock . . .fuck . . . I'm close, I'm so close," John moaned, small whimpers and hard breaths tearing from his mouth. It was so good -- so much pleasure flooding every nerve and suddenly it was too much. He swore as he came, his whole body tensing and his hand pausing around Sherlock. He shuddered once, and then twice, and finally he started to come down enough to resume stroking Sherlock furiously, panting against his chest. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and watched John's face as he came and then there was nothing but John's touch and he closed his eyes and lifted his hips, pushing into John's grip, and he came into John's hand, panting, and then pulling John down against him.

John felt utterly spent. He curled into Sherlock, held him close, whispering his name as he caught his breath. 

"Will you stay in here for the night?" Sherlock said. His body felt so heavy on the bed -- despite all the sleep he'd been getting, he was exhausted now and finding it almost too difficult to speak, even though there were a million things he wanted to say to John.

John nodded. "Gladly," he whispered, pecking small kisses on his collar bone. 

Sherlock smiled and rested his hand on John's arm. "I love you, John," he said softly.

John felt his heart swell, and he found himself feeling very thankful that those words had not slipped out while Sherlock was in his daze. "I love you too, Sherlock," he said, tilting his head up and kissing under his chin. 

"I feel dozy now," Sherlock admitted. "But it's nicer feeling dozy after this," he curled into John and let his hand lightly stroke his skin.

"I hear intense orgasms are a good method to help you sleep," he smiled softly. "All natural. No side effects."

"You should have suggested that first," Sherlock said, smiling.

"I may have been...subconsciously, you know?"

"Next time don't be so subtle," Sherlock's voice was sleepy, and his head felt a little clouded but in a very nice way.

"Shh," John smiled. "Go to sleep now," he murmured, half gone himself. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and fell to sleep, pressed against John.


	7. The Envelopes

John slept deeply, hardly stirring from his tangled position in Sherlock's long limbs. It was warm and quiet and the best sleep he'd had since he came back from the war.  

Sherlock managed to sleep almost the whole night, but apparently the pills must have been out of his system because he woke up wide awake around six. He turned and watched John sleeping next to him for a while. And then he moved quietly off the bed and reached under it to where he had moved the secret box. He reached for the key and unlocked it. He slid the drawer out and set it on the bed, moving out of the room to let John continue to sleep.

Even though John was still sleeping, he knew he wasn't warm anymore. Not like before anyways and that feeling dragged John out of his deep sleep. He attempted to wake up twice, both times giving up and letting his mind slip away again. He tugged the covers up, but it wasn't the same anymore. The third time he blinked himself properly awake and he realised that Sherlock was gone. He yawned and pushed himself up, his eyes falling on -- a drawer? And then it hit.

 _The_ drawer. He hoped that Sherlock had left it out on purpose. He looked at the envelopes inside and pulled them out, all of them addressed to him. He looked around the room before starting to open them nervously. 

The first letter was written on the back of a note Mrs. Hudson had left about getting John's name on the lease. It read:

 

_6 February_

_You've done something extraordinary, John Watson, and I'm not referring to saving my life. You have made me feel, and this is something I've not done for such a long time._

_I wish I could tell you what I was feeling, but I'm not quite sure myself what it is. But it makes me feel warm and less alone and more at peace when I fall asleep each night._

_SH_

 

John opened another one.

 

_15 March_

_I said something I shouldn't have, John, but in trying to make it right, I confess, I still wasn't entirely honest. It's not that I don't friends, John, I have one, and it's you and I love you._

_SH_

 

John kept opening the letters. They were written at various times since John had moved in, and they were all about how Sherlock felt. The whole time they had known each other, Sherlock had rarely spoken of feelings. Instead, he had poured them out into these letters.

When John was finished, he stared down at the letters surrounding him. When he thought about it, there had been moments like this for him as well. But he had been an idiot and pushed them away, worried about labels and other nonsense. And yet Sherlock had not given up. He held on to these moments and saved them even when John couldn't see -- or refused to see. He got up and slipped on a pair of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and went out to look for him. When he found him in the kitchen he didn't say anything. He simply wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulled him down and kissed him. It was soft and loving, and he hoped that it said all of the things that he hadn't over the time he'd known Sherlock. 

Sherlock watched John's face carefully as he came towards him. And when John kissed him, he knew that John knew. He kissed him back, reaching up and softly touching his cheek.

When he pulled back he rest their foreheads together and kept his eyes closed, breathing steadily. "I've been so stupid, Sherlock, but not anymore, okay? It's going to be different now, and I am going to make sure that not a single day passes that you don't know how much I love you." 

Sherlock smiled. "Okay, John Watson. I'd like that."

John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's. "I mean it," he said, pecking his lips. 

"Now you know, John," Sherlock said. "The only thing I've not been honest about. The only secret I've kept . . . was you."


End file.
